


A Friend To Carry

by Aspire_to_Inspire



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Captain America: The First Avenger, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-18 23:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18127724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aspire_to_Inspire/pseuds/Aspire_to_Inspire
Summary: "Steven Rogers and James Barnes had done their fair share of carrying each other. Of course, in the days before the serum, it was Bucky who, by far, did most of the physical carrying."A look into the brotherhood of two kids from Brooklyn and how it carried them through. Set before and during "The First Avenger."





	1. Chapter 1

Steven Rogers and James Barnes had done their fair share of carrying each other. Of course, in the days before the serum, it was Bucky who, by far, did most of the physical carrying.

Bucky remembered Steve's thin, damp arms around his shoulders, and his legs of similar description threaded through his arms. The rain, the reason for Steve's newly acquired twisted ankle, torn slacks and equally torn knee, pelted down on the umbrella Steve held over their heads. Or, more accurately, directly on top of his own blond head, so no one could see his furiously humiliated face. The black rim dominated the top half of Bucky's vision, but by now he could easily navigate his way to Steve's place even while staring down at his shoes, so he didn't mention it, and instead continued to smilingly assert that his passenger was an idiot while Steve snarled the contrary in a way that insinuated he would get down to walk and ruin his injured joint for life just for the sake of being stubborn

Bucky had always thought Steve's view of self-respect was remarkable: if you insulted him and he didn't agree, he couldn't be moved; if you insulted him and he thought you were at all correct to do so, he would make an explosive move away from whatever unpleasant reality was being discussed. Meaning that anytime a bully tried to step on Steve's morals, they were faced with a small but concrete barrier of righteous fury, and when Bucky consequentially felt the need to remind Steve that he maybe kind of definitely was going to get pounded, Steve became a miniature pit bull.

Perfect storm.

So Bucky had more than once had Steve pressed up against his back as he had that rainy afternoon. There were the times as kids he'd simply ducked under Steve's arm and hurried him away from the playground bullies into the relatively safe presence of an authority figure. Sometimes he would sling Steve over his shoulder, ignoring his protests, if the reason for his incapacitation was some recklessness that Bucky had specifically naysayed. Then there was the time when Steve had a severe asthma attack while Bucky had been teaching him to box; heart pounding in worry, he'd rushed him home in his arms so he could breathe easier.

But however many times he had to carry Steve, he never gave up on Steve's right to be treated like the man he wanted to be. So he challenged, teased, and baited him. And whenever he was toting him about, Bucky always tossed back at him all the doubts he thought Steve might have—that he was a weakling, a burden, a pain in the neck—so that Steve could deny them more vehemently than he could if they sprang up in his own head and not playfully out of his best friend's mouth. Then they would arrive at Steve's and his mother would fuss over him just sternly enough to not be patronizing and Bucky would receive his customary hug as thanks for not letting her son limp home through a downpour and Bucky would say it was nothing.

Because really, it was.

The trouble was the friendship between the two of them had the same problem as Steve himself: appearance mis-matched reality. To others, Steve was as small inside as he was out, just as much of a loser in life as he was in his fistfights. To others, Bucky was the well-spring of charm and strength while Steve was a thirsty parasite lucky enough to bask in the glory of Bucky's faster fists and good graces.

Bucky liked the idea of this notion taking on physical form so he could personally punch it in the teeth.

First of all, it wasn't like their friendship—or Steve himself—could be summed up in back alleys and broken noses. There were schoolyards where Steve learned his way around a bag of marbles and the docks where Bucky learned his way around a lot of things for an extra few dollars. There was a sketchpad in Steve's lap as he captured the ocean in graphite while Bucky stuck pencil stubs into a pathetic attempt at sand architecture. There were arguments over whether Steve had eaten more than his share of the penny candy (he had) and whether Bucky had been successful in flirting with the red-head (he hadn't). There were days in March when Steve would wonder aloud if maybe this year someone would bother to shoot off fireworks for _Bucky's_ birthday (“...but don't get your hopes up, Buck; you were so disappointed last year”) and the fourth of July when Bucky would be outraged that there weren't more candles on the cake because the country was much older than this (“What birth could be more important than the birth of this great nation--ouch! That's not very patriotic of you, Steve...”).

Secondly, Steve had far more to give than anyone gave him credit for, and Bucky was a satisfied recipient, thank you very much. Because Steve so rarely wallowed in the luxury of self-doubt, Bucky had never felt the need to explain why he needed Steve; they both operated on the silent assumption that if he didn't, he would have just left by now.

However, as Steve's desire for a chance to prove himself drove him to more and more confrontations, Bucky found himself thinking that maybe Steve could stand to doubt himself a little bit. Partly to keep from becoming the story behind a stain on the sidewalk, but also because Bucky himself could use a little encouragement in his one-man war on Steve's fragile health and bull-headedness. It could be hard to tell if Steve, who'd pick a fight with certain death if he thought he ought to, appreciated getting bailed out.

But, in Bucky's mind, being wanted was beside the point; Steve would always need him, and he would always be there, probably even if Steve came to hate his guts for it.

So Bucky carried Steve whenever he needed it, waiting patiently (or sometimes not) for the day everyone would see how Steve did the same for him.


	2. Chapter 2

It began as many fights had before and would after: with Steve snapping at a guy for bothering a dame. Unlike the garden-variety pig who thinks he's a gift to humanity and can't fathom being told no, this snake clearly enjoyed setting the girl on edge. He was polite, but with a sneering smile and touches to her shoulder that were intimate enough to make her tense, but over too quickly for her to protest them. If Steve was being honest, he probably wouldn't have noticed anything was going on, but the girl's discomfort telegraphed the situation to Bucky--who could be counted on to have an eye on every available woman--and Bucky's responding jaw-clench telegraphed it to Steve, who could read his friend easy as the Sunday funny pages.

In seconds, his slight frame had slipped into the crowd toward them, and he could sense Bucky's exasperated presence following.

Steve could have let Bucky take care of it; he would have found it easy to pretend to know the girl and mention that important place she needed to be, or sidle up to the man with a charming smile and introduce himself, providing a distraction. The problem Steve had with these solutions was they stroked the perpetrator's ego instead of puncturing it.

This was a fundamental difference between him and Bucky. It was Bucky's position that the tendency of an idiot was to remain an idiot, and the priority was keeping people clear of the stupid said idiot was spraying around. Steve, by contrast, wanted to hold people, even and especially idiots, to a higher standard, and insisted on being the lone enforcer of said standard. His limited success, while giving Bucky many a headache, did little to deter him.

It must also be said that Steve deeply disliked _letting_ people win.

With this in mind, Steve approached the man, told him exactly what he thought of him, and the two of them shared a mutual first punch. On that cue, Bucky appeared between them, elbows locked to keep them apart, and, with an air of apology, told the “gentlemen” that if they had any hard feelings, they should take them outside. “But just so you know, you'll find there'll be three participants in any ensuing fights.” A reasonable smile. “What do you say we call it square?”

The creep mirrored Bucky's smile with an extra curl of his lip as his eyes flicked to Steve, who was still simmering with ferocity, before he graciously shrugged his shoulders.

“Square. Of course,” he said, then skulked away, hand in pockets, to a different part of the crowd.

Steve glanced at the girl, noting that, pleased as she was to be rid of the harassment, she looked embarrassed that her savior was a pipsqueak who'd drawn so much attention. Frustration mounting, Steve marched past her and out the door. He'd made it across the street before he heard the door open again.

“Hold up, will ya?”

“Why?” Steve said with scorn as Bucky drew level with him. “It's not like _I_ can leave _you_ behind.”

Bucky only rolled his eyes, probably because he knew the comment was just part of Steve's rare and short-lived bitterness. Steve kept quiet for a few seconds, then:

“You could've at least let me get a few good hits in.”

“I gave you both one hit; that seemed the fair, American thing to do. Besides, I don't have to answer to _his_ mother if he gets a black eye.”

“If you're so squirrelly about that why don't you back me up _before_ the fight starts?”

“We've been over this, Steve,” Bucky huffed.

“Yeah: you don't _wanna_ fight.” Bucky simply shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. Steve shook his head and decided to let it go.

Steve didn't understand Bucky's problem; he agreed with Steve's moral judgement, knew he wasn't starting fights for the heck of it, wasn't one of the people who treated him like glass, and it wasn't like he didn't have the stomach for violence. So why did he still object at every turn? And Steve wasn't picking fights just so he could duck behind Bucky and force him to play guard dog; he started plenty when he was alone, too. But he _wanted_ to fight with Bucky beside him. That's what you did with your friends. It wasn't _his_ fault the partnership was so uneven.

For two days Steve kept seeing the same guy around, looking at him with that same bright smile. Steve was used to seeing veiled threats, but he couldn't find any in the almost gleeful expression—not a hint of rage or revenge—so he kept his distance, a distance Bucky was all too happy to maintain, and they both hoped that the guy was just weird enough to not make anything of the little encounter. Of course, the opposite quickly proved to be true.

Knowing a thing or two about bullying tactics, Steve wasn't all that surprised to find himself yanked back into an alley when Bucky conveniently wasn't with him.

“Where you going, little man? Off to meet your handsome friend?”

“Why? You got a crush on him?” Steve said, fists already up. Snakeman laughed and took a step forward with an exaggerated shrug.

“You think I don't know how this works, Rogers? Yeah, I heard of you: the little ball of fire with a righteous cause and a big, strong nursemaid to wipe your bloody nose.” The dig at Bucky burned Steve, but didn't move him.

“I don't see him here now. If you got somethin' to put to rest, feel free,” he challenged. Not _picking_ a fight, exactly, just...preparing for one.

“Aw, now don't you worry about fighting alone, Stevie-boy. I'm sure Babysitter Barnes ain't far.”

He wasn't wrong; Steve _had_ been on his way to meet Bucky, and he'd already been late, and Bucky always checked alleys out of habit...

“You wanna fight two of us so it'll look better when you lose?” he quipped, torn between holding out for his friend and trying to get it over with before he showed.

The creep made a _tsk_ -ing noise. “See, that's where they all go wrong. If I grind you into the dust, you would only get all riled, and then Barnes would get riled, and then I'd have myself a proper thorn in my side, now wouldn't I?” He advanced farther, and Steve felt the wall at his back, which may have concerned him _if_ he'd been considering making a run for it. “I got you figured, Rogers.”

“You think so, huh?” Something gnawed at Steve's guts, worrying the creep had more in mind than a regular pounding. But a fellow had to stick to his guns, so he pulled up his hands again and decided he was going to hit first this time--

“Steve, what the heck, man?”

And cue Bucky's timely appearance: shuffling his way through old blown-away newspapers, white shirt, jacket over his shoulder, wearing that uniquely _Bucky_ expression of I'd-kill-you-but-then-so-would-a-stiff-breeze-quick-take-my-coat-before-you-catch-your-death-you-moron.

“What's your damage, McHenry?” he snapped, and Steve grinned, despite knowing Buck would be ticked off about it later (“Could you at least _try_ not to look so happy about getting your teeth knocked in?”). He loved when Bucky quit with the evasive tactics and settled in for a fight.

McHenry didn't turn. “What do you see in this slip of nothin' Barnes?” he said, looking Steve over with a baleful eye. “I see the advantage of never having to compete with him, but...can't be easy livin' with someone so self-absorbed.”

Bucky kept coming. “Wow, McHenry, I misjudged you; I didn't think you'd ever be that stupid out loud.”

“Buck-” Steve warned, but his friend was already turning—just in time to see that their lives had suddenly gotten a whole lot harder.

Blocking the way to the street were three boys Steve recognized all too easily: Jack Lane, who'd given him a fat lip for getting _him_ detention for cheating; George Ritter, who'd tried to physically force Steve to tell him who was trying to 'steal' a girl he didn't even have in the first place; and Miles Kerbin, who Steve had confronted in a very loud and very public manner about his brutal hazing of the younger players on the baseball team.

Kerbin was carrying his slugger.

“What's it like ' _Bucky_ '?” McHenry said, staring dead on into Steve's eyes. “Havin' a friend who'll make you take the fall with him just so he gets to feel like he's worth something?”

And then Bucky's fist was in his face, Buck was whirling around to take on the two who'd moved in and Steve threw himself at McHenry. McHenry was far and away recovered enough to block Steve's punch and shove him back hard against the wall. Steve rocked forward, at the ready again, but he already knew this was going to be one of the fights they lost—he had no delusions that Bucky was unbeatable, even giving as much as he got, and Kerbin was hanging back, bat poised, looking for an opening...

Steve lunged, this time hoping to get past, distract Kerbin, maybe get him to lose his grip...only to rebound off McHenry again, this time with enough force to knock him to the ground. He heard an awful sound that could only be all the air leaving Bucky's lungs in one home-run swing, and something far deeper than his temper flared inside Steve. He rocketed to his feet and this time he would wait for McHenry, because the moment he was close enough to be hitting him he would at least be able to hit him back...

But McHenry didn't come. He just stood there, a bit bloody on the corner of his lip, but wearing a wide grin just the same. Steve paused for less than a second, then made a quick move to the left; McHenry followed. Left, right, right again, he mirrored Steve without a single attack. And that was the moment a nasty idea took root in Steve's head, as he looked past McHenry to where Bucky had one set of hands pinning his right arm while another divided their attentions between crushing his windpipe and lashing out at his face. Kerbin's weapon gave a playful bounce in his palm before settling on a target and smashing into Bucky's right knee, sending him crumpling to the pavement. Steve looked into McHenry's eyes and saw the truth there.

“No." McHenry lit up at the word, delighted to be found out. “No! Stop! Stop it!” Steve slammed into McHenry and tried to claw his way past, but McHenry easily pushed him back to the wall and held him there.

“Remember, fellas,” he called over his shoulder. “Barnes has gotten the beat-down for Steve before. Make this one special.” Then he leaned in closer to Steve, but not close enough for Steve's attempt to headbutt his nose in to succeed. “See Rogers, anyone knows that in a fight you need more men than the other guy. Anyone knows that you go for his weak spot. And _everyone_ knows that a nice guy's weak spot is a person he cares about.”

Steve poured all of his enormous rage into his attempts to make McHenry experience at least some measure of the horrific pain he wanted to cause him; he hated McHenry, he hated them all, he hated the whole of the universe that dictated that he couldn't help, that Bucky was down but the bat was up over Kerbin's head and coming down again and again...

“Next time you spring up to play Jiminy Cricket and get Barnes stepped on with you,” McHenry went on. “there'll be a little part of you, of him, of everyone, that'll wonder if maybe you aren't such a good guy. Maybe you just don't care who pays the price for your battles.”

Then he turned around, but not before locking Steve's head firmly under his arm. “Did everyone get to adequately express their feelings?”

“Think so,” said Lane; Ritter and Kerbin stood beside him, flushed with victory, their blood and bruises not nearly proper retribution for what they'd done. Steve wanted to call them every foul name strung together with every vulgar expression he knew, but he couldn't bring himself to think of anything but getting to Bucky, who was sprawled face-down and lying so still and one false swing of that bat to his head could've killed him...

The concrete flattened his chest when McHenry dropped him and moved off with his allies in tow. Kerbin pointed his bat at Steve and winked. “Later, Rogers.”

And they were gone.

Steve scrambled to Bucky's side, getting to his knees to turn him over. “Come on, Buck, don't you dare, don't you _dare-_ ” but already the harsh sound of his friend breathing was cutting through the panicked rush in his ears. Bucky added his efforts to rolling over onto his back; his face was a wreck of blood and bruising on every inch of his jaw, spreading across his left cheekbone, and a cut above an eye that was beginning to swell. Steve did his best to lever him upright as he coughed twice, then spat the blood from his mouth.

“ _That_ was fun,” he croaked. His good eye flashed over Steve's entirety. “They...didn't hurt you?”

 _No._ Steve was surprised when he couldn't get the word out, and only shook his head. What was wrong with him? Buck had been hurt in his fights before. But then, not like this with Steve only watching. Never with Steve walking away without a mark to show for what _he_ had started.

But Bucky only grinned lopsidedly. “Great...that's great, Stevie. Then you can...can help me get...home.” He made a move to get up as if it would be easy, but collapsed back immediately with a harsh sound, expression crumpling.

“Anything broken?” Steve asked. Bucky curled one hand over his chest.

“Dunno. I've never...broken a-anything before.”

“Lucky dog.” Steve maneuvered himself under Bucky's arm. “On three, 'kay? One, two...”

Once Bucky's feet were more or less under him and he'd stopped swearing through his teeth, Steve propped him up against the wall and retrieved his jacket.

“My place is closer,” he said, standing near enough for Bucky to lean on him; he wasn't tall enough to shoulder him properly.

Bucky huffed.

"Right."

_____________________________________________________________________

“Webster! Hey, Webster! Come gimme a hand!”

One of the Rogers' neighbors was a quiet young man who liked to keep to himself, but Steve didn't care; he had a strong set of hands, and he happened to be going up the stairs just as the two of them arrived at the bottom. When his bright hazel eyes saw the pair, he came scrambling back down.

“What happened to him?” he asked, and Steve was grateful he didn't wait for an answer before pulling Bucky's arm over his shoulder. Bucky appeared equally grateful as he collapsed against him, utterly spent.

“Bad fight.” Steve pounded up the stairs, but didn't reach his door before it swung open and his mother looked out at the commotion. Seeing her son standing whole and healthy by all appearances, Steve saw relief painted across her face before he could get out the words.

“It's Buck, Ma.” Her worried frown returning, Mrs. Rogers looked past him to where Webster had just appeared. Bucky was offering little help at this point; his right leg had stopped holding weight blocks ago, and his breathing hitched unsteadily.

Steve could physically see the nurse in her taking over.

“Inside,” she commanded Webster in a way that would have erased the hesitation of the most timid of men. Steve did his best to help brace Bucky's other side as they both got him through the door. “On the couch,” Mrs. Rogers called from the kitchen. Between the two of them, they managed to set Bucky down. They lowered him onto his back when it became clear he wasn't going to stay upright, but when Webster pulled up his legs, Bucky yelped like a wounded dog. Webster jumped back, wide-eyed.

“Thank you, Webster, you can go now,” Mrs. Rogers said as she brushed past him with a pot full of water and washcloths. The young man bobbed his head quickly and retreated out the door with a parting look of sympathy while she knelt at Bucky's head.

“James,” she said, gently placing her hands on either side of his head. “Look at me, James.” She looked searchingly into his bleary eyes, then felt around until Bucky hissed. “There we are,” she murmured. “He's got quite the knot back there. How'd this happen, Steve?”

“A fella named McHenry,” he said, wringing out a cloth and placing it carefully against the back of Bucky's head. “He got together a bunch of bullies and they all ganged up on-” His mother sucked in a breath, having pulled up the hem of Bucky's shirt. Steve swallowed hard at the damage. “One of them had a baseball bat,” he finished quietly.

“What about his leg?” she asked while running searching fingers over Bucky's ribcage.

“The bat hit him pretty hard in the knee.”

“Well, if he managed to walk on it all the way here it's probably not broken—easy!” Bucky had yelped again, and began to curl up reflexively, but Steve held him back.

“I know it's hard, James,” his mother said. “But the best thing is for you to lie flat. Steve, dear, get on the phone; see if you can get a hold of his family. It's not a deathly emergency, but he will need to see a doctor.” Steve obeyed immediately. As he stood dialing, his mother murmured quietly to Bucky, urging him to stay awake when his eyes squeezed shut. As she started cleaning the blood from his face, her brow drew together into a kind of sharp worry that gave Steve a fright.

He didn't take his eyes off his friend once through the entire call.

____________________________________________________________________________

“Steve, I'm dyin' here.”

“Shut up, Buck.”

“You wanna know why?”

“No.”

“Because you're killin' me. I can tell you're not really sketching over there.”

Steve kept his eyes glued to the page in front of him. Bucky wasn't wrong; it was just pointless lines and smudges with shapes here and there that had been abandoned almost as soon as they formed. Usually he had no problem concentrating with Buck around, but then, usually Buck didn't have a problem with him being quiet. This just wasn't very usual.

When Bucky's mother and one of his sisters had arrived Steve's mother had briefly summarized the situation before they left for the hospital. Mrs. Rogers had gotten the call later that Bucky was, indeed, going to be fine, though it would take him a little time to get there, and they had to keep a close eye on him through the night due to the knock to his head which, thankfully, had not come from the bat.

The next day, Steve, as any best friend would, had gone over with the intent of keeping him company, but not before asking Mrs. Barnes for the full damage report; he figured she wouldn't leave anything out to spare his feelings.

Now Steve was sitting in a chair at the foot of Bucky's bed with his feet resting on the mattress while he tried to ignore its occupant.

“Steve, I didn't get hit on the head _that_ hard. I can tell you're upset. Spill.” Steve reluctantly looked up at his friend's insistent gaze, read the demand for an answer there, and proceeded to look anywhere else.

He looked at Bucky's wrapped right hand lying across his chest, and knew that under it almost his entire torso was wrapped as well. He looked at the lump under the covers where his right leg was carefully elevated. He looked at the angry bruises all over his face, his arms, his neck.

Then he sighed, closed his sketchpad, and rubbed his temples.

“I, uh...” he began, then laughed nervously. “I didn't know how bad this”--he made a vague, all-encompassing gesture--“would feel.”

Bucky only looked confused for a moment before he gave a small smile.

“Not too fun on the other side of things is it?”

Steve nodded. “I mean, I always knew you didn't _like_ seeing me hurt, but...” He looked down. “But I _hate_ this, Buck.”

“Don't worry about it,” Bucky said, shrugging one shoulder. “At least I don't make a habit of it.”

“Yeah, well, at least you aren't useless when it happens to me,” Steve said sullenly.

Bucky looked puzzled. “You got me home, didn't you?” Steve glared at him for being so dense.

“ _Buck,_ ” he said darkly. “Your ribs were _cracked_ , your knee was _dislocated_ , you had a _concussion,_ and you _leaned on me a little bit._ ”

“There's a 'selling yourself short' joke just begging to be made here...Fine, I won't!” he added quickly as Steve's menace increased. “But don't bother with the self-blaming, pal; I've been playing that game a lot longer than you and it's never any good.”

It was Steve's turn to look puzzled. “Really? But you've always told me off for starting it.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Because you _do_ start it. Doesn't mean I'm not still responsible for my best friend, dummy.”

“Why? I mean, why _be_ friends with me when all you get is _this_ -” Steve swept his hand over the various injuries “-or _this._ ” He motioned in the general direction of his angst. Bucky gave him a hard look, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“You're going to make me talk in _feelings_ , aren't you?” He sighed, then winced and briefly clutched his chest. “Fine. You wanna hear some mushy stuff, here it is: I happened to need you. It happens that there's no one else in this city who makes a guy like me, well...good.”

Steve's feet came off the bed as he leaned forward, brow furrowed. “What are you talking about, Buck?” Bucky shrugged, but didn't quite meet his eye.

“I guess it's just that...I'm never sure whether I outta just be good as I can, or if the only way to fight monsters is to be like one. I'm not like you, Steve. I always gotta watch to make sure I don't turn into one of them, and sometimes I'm just not sure how."

“Bucky...” Steve began, then quickly adjusted his tone. “Come on, I thought you were the smart one. Of course you're a good guy.” Bucky smiled faintly.

“Steve, you charge into the trashiest thing you can find like you're not afraid it'll touch you. I am. But when we fight the bad guys together, I don't have to be afraid of turning into one, 'cause that just wouldn't do for any friend of Steve Rogers...And yeah, I hate that you get hurt, because I hate that anyone can't see you for what you are. But I like havin' a friend worth believing in; it's worth a little leg-work.” He stopped suddenly to breathe again, arm cradling his ribs.

“Looks like you had better shut up,” Steve said blithely, leaning back in his chair again.

“Depends: did my point make it through that thick skull of yours?”

“Yeah, I guess it did.” Bucky, looking quite smug, settled back into his pillow, eyes closed once more.

Steve flipped to a new page and started outlining the shape of the nightstand. He still thought the idea of Bucky being anything less than a good man preposterous, because who but an exceptionally good man would worry about becoming a bad one? Still, Bucky saying that being his friend made him feel closer to who he wanted to be made Steve's gratitude burn twice as bright—gratitude for a friendship that made both of them better. And it made him all the more determined: if Bucky needed him to stay constant in the lies and blurred lines, the way Bucky was constant through Steve's pains and frustrations, then he would without hesitation.

He may not be able to carry Bucky, but the fact that Buck trusted him to anyway was enough.


	3. Chapter 3

The war was stupid.

Bucky knew that wasn't really a good enough word; tragic, horrendous, or terrifying might have suited it better in the general sense. But in the sense of what it was doing to his life personally at this very moment, stupid was the word he chose.

Bucky was going, of course. In what universe wouldn't he be? Being a friend to Steve Rogers guaranteed he'd had enough patriotism, fighting spirit, and sense of moral duty argued into him to last a lifetime. And there was his dad to think of; Bucky wanted to honor him, and by all accounts this was the way to do it. Besides that, he needed the pay, which would cover his family responsibilities and hopefully keep Steve off the street and out of the hospital. And then there was the simple fact that if he didn't enlist he'd probably just get drafted, and the only thing worse than volunteering to join the army was to get dragged into it kicking and screaming. Bucky appreciated the control of having a choice, even when he didn't have much of one, hemmed in as he was from every side.

But that didn't change the fact that he still found himself, at any given moment, attacked with a pounding, invasive thought coming forcefully upon him:

_I don't want to go._

Bucky wasn't fool enough to think that all his excellent reasons were enough to hold back simple, honest fear. He was also just intelligent enough to admit to himself that he was afraid of more than dying; he didn't want to get shot or blown apart; lose an arm or never walk again; lose his mind and never sleep again. He didn't want to kill, and he didn't want to get good at it.

But he would. He would anyway. Because according to Steve and the spangled posters, he _had_ to.

Stupid war.

Bucky's only consolation was that Steve hadn't the slightest chance of joining him. When Steve had tried to enlist, Bucky had tactfully kept his mouth shut, and when he was denied, it was all Bucky could do not to lift his hands to the heavens and thank God that the world had not yet gone so mad as to demand the wasteful death of his best friend.

But Steve was, for all that Bucky loved him, fast becoming his nemesis. He thought Bucky would be glad to fight, would live to come home, would be a hero. Worst of all, he thought Bucky should understand his desire to get himself killed. And as Bucky stood outside that enlistment office on his last night, perched at the brink of a man-made hell with his best friend not only ignoring his plight but doing his level best to throw away his life for a share in it, he knew it was time to stop carrying Steve.

And for Steve to stop carrying him.

He'd long enjoyed the lightening of his conscience by affording Steve the opportunity to carry it for him, a duty his friend heartily embraced. Even though Bucky made his own choices, he trusted Steve's judgement, and that Steve wouldn't hesitate to scold him soundly if he were ever out of line. Steve had further assuaged his fears by mocking them as unnecessary, teasing Bucky for his doubts in much the same way Bucky had teased him for his own (“You spent half an hour doing your hair, Buck, forgive me if I'm not worried stiff over your moral character”). But Bucky knew this benefit of their friendship was a luxury, and it was one he was more than glad to part with in exchange for the safety of his benefactor.

More difficult to give up was his own carrying role, because the alternative was bleak. Steve had never needed Nazis to start a war; he'd hand-crafted his own. Bucky was already a veteran of the Battle of Brooklyn, a war on the injuries, illnesses, and injustices that had made it their business to extinguish the light that was Steve Rogers. And just because a newer, bigger threat had overlooked Steve didn't change the fact that Bucky simply wouldn't be there to deal with the first, and that frightened him just as badly, so badly he wanted to rattle Steve's shoulders and shout at him.

“Look, I know you don't think I can do this-”

 _No, worse than that, I know that you_ _**can,** _ _and you_ _**would** _ _if they'd let you, you_ _**will** _ _when I leave you, you're going to keep fighting, and I can't stop you._

“There are men laying down their lives.”

_And they should, and I should, I'm afraid, but I can do that for you, Steve, act like the hero you all need me to be._

“I got no right to do any less than them.”

 _But I do,_ _**I do,** _ _I have earned you safe and well, earned so much more than you dead of a bullet at twenty years old._

And then just like that their arms were around each other and just for a moment Bucky was awash with calm, because after all they had done for each other and despite what they would face apart, they were brothers. And he would carry that with him, right up until whatever end he faced, be it Steve's or his own, because there was no truth more comforting.

So Bucky saluted the first and finest officer he had ever and would ever follow into battle, and shipped out for hell the next morning with steel in his eyes and a skinny punk from Brooklyn in his heart.

__________________________________________________________________

Steve had never been one given to worrying. He was very adept at simply enduring unpleasant things, and, when it came to unacceptable things, quite good at taking immediate action regardless of that action's prudence, effectiveness, and/or overall difficulty. Bucky going to war without him fell into the former category: not ideal, but not wrong either. And since he had done his level best to improve the situation, he was at peace with it. It didn't occur to him to fret over Bucky.

At least, not until an hour later when his form was stamped and accepted.

The choice he faced now was complex: he could tell Bucky and send him into a hopeless panic on the night before he shipped out, or he could tell him when they eventually met up in the 107th.

 _If_ they met up. Steve wasn't an idiot, and he knew he'd gotten no more than what he'd wanted: a chance, slim as a hair. And even if he made it, he wasn't fully sure just what he had signed up for or where it would land him in the end. Plus, now that his enlistment tunnel-vision was clearing, it was occurring to him rather stingingly that he had, in a sulk, ditched his best friend on said best friend's last night at home. There was no way he was going to cast Bucky into what was sure to be utter horror on top of everything else, especially not because of a fragile possibility.

So he waited as long as he could before explaining to Mrs. Barnes in a somewhat edited fashion that she wouldn't be seeing him around for a while, then took what little he needed and reported to basic.

The whole time he was there, Steve was almost forced not to think about Bucky. Not in the sense he didn't wish they were still together and look forward to that future possibility, but in the sense that he found it unsettling to picture where Bucky currently was and what might currently—or worse, _no longer_ currently—be happening to him. He also didn't dare imagine Bucky here, seeing him wear his body to dangerous limits, leap on grenades, and prepare to let scientists experiment on him. He would probably have died on the spot from fury and shock, only to rise as a vengeful specter bent on haunting Steve to his dying day and beyond.

Steve felt the loss of his friend more strongly when he suddenly became Captain America, and soon found himself confused, frustrated, and in general without a true ally between the adoring masses and the pullers of strings (usually his). He'd thought it would be easy to take orders because it hadn't occurred to him just how contrary those orders would be to his own sensibilities. Bucky, being Steve's outsourced voice of dissent, would have had no trouble divesting Steve of this far too rosy outlook. For this very reason, Steve continued to avoid thinking too much about him; he would have seen the stupidity of this campaign and called Steve out over it in seconds flat, undermining the sense of denial Steve had cultivated to keep the people above him happy and himself in line where he thought he ought to be.

It was Peggy who finally stepped in to do what Bucky was no longer available to, which was smacking Steve upside the head with the shocking revelation that he was a man of high quality and caliber and anyone asking him to be less than that should never, ever get the final say on what action he would take—though she did it with far more elegance and less actual violence.

And then she said all that was left of the 107th.

It was like all the concern he'd been putting off suddenly came upon him at once, and it had accrued interest. How could he have allowed himself to languish in uselessness just because he'd been told to? Ignored the fact that he had, at long last, the ability to pay back all the sacrifices Bucky had made for him? Hung back in the States, letting his friend die for a helpless, sickly kid who no longer existed?

Steve ran off after answers, and didn't like the one he got. But he remembered now who he had been when it was him and Bucky out to change the world, when Buck had carried Steve on his shoulders to remind him just how tall he really was. Steve felt he'd done a poor job of carrying himself well enough to have lived up to that level of respect, but now, just as certainly as he'd walked into Brooklyn's darkest corners, he knew what he had to do to be worthy of it again.

He was going to get his friend back by being every bit the great man Buck had always believed him to be.

And maybe, he dared hope, he'd bring him back alive.


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky was good at it.

He'd had an inkling in basic: the ease with which the workings of a rifle came to him, the way he responded under the pressure of authority where others cracked wise or just plain cracked, and—no matter how much he tried to remind himself that out in the field these would be people, just kids from somewhere—the way his quick eyes picked out targets and quicker aim took them out. Like he was meant for this, just like he had been back in Brooklyn.

Meant to be a soldier.

He hadn't been prepared for action, but then, he had never claimed to be. When his hands started trembling the first time he aimed at a human head, not stopping for hours; when he vomited at the sight of a mangled comrade who was alive for far too many seconds after; when he felt tears in the mud on his cheeks; when he froze up in one of the trenches like he was just going to wait patiently for it to became his grave; when sleep became more a trance filled with vivid nightmares of blasts and blood that rested his body but never his mind—Bucky flatly refused to feel shame over any of it.

The longer it went on, the more he felt that these reactions were evidence of his humanity being ripped out of him piece by piece, and he feared that, as they lessened, so did he. But damn, if he didn't get plenty in return: the ability to hold steady no matter how clearly he could see the enemy's face; to press his hands directly over torn flesh and hold it together; to mourn without tears blurring his vision; to move, quick and determined, through the most violent throes of icy fear; to sleep standing and sitting up, ready for action.

There was the other extreme as well: the long stretches of marching or just sitting around waiting. The boredom was its own kind of punishment, as the empty moments tempted thoughts of what he would be doing if he were back home. But he knew even if he had his own bed and a radio playing live baseball he wouldn't have been able to relax. Not with a sudden assault of death lurking just out of sight, unpredictable.

At his lowest, Bucky thought about Steve, safe at home, and fought the way he had fought for him: as a defender, so that his fellow soldiers wouldn't have to die, or, if they did, so they wouldn't die for nothing. And he could bear the taint if it meant Steve and everyone like him remained free to guard the light that Bucky had tried so hard to live in before the war's blackness had snared him.

He thought it was time when he saw the blue lights that snuffed men out like candles. In the moments before the tank turned on them, when shock and silence and even a few foolish hopes took hold of the men of the 107th, Bucky thought he could feel the end, like a dark wall of fog, settling heavy and thick over them all.

The last dregs of hope that he would ever go home left him.

Then the next moment was bearing down upon him, and he shouted at the top of his lungs to take cover as he dove for the foxhole and the ground and the air concussed around him. His head swam, his ears rang, and, struggling through the disorientation, he tried to get up, searching every limb for tell-tale pain as it moved.

His heart plunged into his stomach as the first few men to raise their hands in surrender were spared eradication and surrounded. For one of the longest and most terrible minutes of Bucky's life, he watched an enemy soldier approach and debated between the evil done to prisoners and the all-to-simple act of raising his gun so death would be given to him swiftly. But as the gun hung from his numb fingers, through his head flashed a picture of Steve at his bedside, eyes full of hurt as he murmured “But I _hate_ this, Buck”; of _his_ skinny arm raising the gun, of how it would have torn Bucky apart if he had.

The gun fell in the mud, and he lifted his hands.

______________________________________________________________________

Bucky lost his sense of time quickly. Part of it was the long march, during which Bucky had accidentally lumped himself in with the troublemakers when he'd failed to suppress his instincts and dodged a swing from one of his captors. His mistake was made clear immediately when he'd hit the ground, left ear ringing.

Another part of it was the work, endless and repetitive. When they'd arrived, what Bucky assumed was the top brass held court, doling out the basic demands and threats while Bucky did his best to keep his breath from catching in his throat the way it'd been doing of late. But since then the only thing to occupy Bucky's mind was how to keep his fellow prisoners from each other's throats and how he could work as inefficiently as possible without getting caught, his last chance to be a nuisance before the end.

That was the third reason: this was certainly his end, just playing out in slow motion like the moments before a car crash, so inevitable he saw no point in marking down the days. His illness progressed as he succumbed to the overexertion; the cold only felt colder as his fever rose, and every inch of him was heavy with painful exhaustion. His persistent cough was like a bell around his neck that drew in every guard looking for an easy target. There was a certain advantage to this, because Bucky wasn't sure just what he would have done if they'd preferred to target his mates. Steve would have heartily recommended fighting, but that would only get him killed or force his captors to level threats at his comrades to keep him in line. At least this way it wasn't complicated.

Bucky's only goal now was to keep up as much of his strength of will as possible, intent on doing his family (including Steve) proud, even though the likelihood they would ever know what happened...damn, they wouldn't even find his body.

Some of his cellmates didn't even have that much, having totally given in to helpless despair; others were far more outraged and passionate than him about living. Bucky suspected this was because they were neither sick, nor currently getting worked over by Fritzie with a metal shell casing.

He'd known it was coming as soon as he stumbled, coughs burning through his chest. Bucky tossed Fritzie a throwaway line about needing a doctor before the headache he'd had for days exploded in a starburst of anguish. After that initial blow, which didn't even do the kindness of knocking him out, Bucky's world narrowed to the pain, the concrete, and the muffled shouting—both of foreign expletives and furious demands from where his cellmates were held back by their own guards.

He didn't know how long Fritzie beat him, only that at some point the pain stopped escalating and held steady at “unbearable.” As he was dragged across the floor, Bucky watched fat drops of blood fall from his lips and disappear beneath him until the soldiers tossed him into his cage. He couldn't move even to shift his position. His lungs and throat were on fire, and his head pounded with echoes of the first strike. He heard a faraway voice from somewhere in his memory reminding him that he was supposed to stay awake when he had a concussion, but it didn't matter; Bucky knew consciousness wasn't an option when his breath rattled, then caught, and the ensuing fit whited out his senses with agony, and if he'd had the air or energy he would have sobbed because he knew he would have to _keep breathing_ with his ribs shifting like red-hot iron in his chest...

It was at this point that awareness mercifully left him.

He only dimly felt it when someone moved him, propping him up against the bars of the cage, before the tell-tale movements of their hands over him denoted they were cataloguing his injuries. Bucky made no effort to sustain his wakened state when they started on his chest and the renewed pain put him under once more.

The next time he was properly awake was when the others returned triumphant, crowing (carefully) about their success in killing Fritzie under the guise of an accident. As Dugan recounted the play-by-play in hushed but exuberant tones, Bucky did his best to rally, smiling because he couldn't bear to laugh, and trying to hide how badly he hurt. These men had taken a great risk upon themselves to keep him alive, lifting their own spirits in the process, and Bucky wasn't going to dampen that precious hope with his cynicism when he could burgeon it with his very real gratitude.

Of course, it wasn't nearly enough. At the end of the first shift Bucky had finally managed to work again, he made his way back only to watch the door slam shut and the others whirl around in shock, seeing him still on the other side of the bars. At once, three soldiers had him on his knees and his arms cuffed behind him while some prisoners yelled curses and others merely gazed on in resignation, all knowing his fate immediately. Bucky fought harder than he thought himself capable, twisting and kicking because he knew how much the rest of them needed to see it done, and because he was not, he was _not_ going to die quietly when there was a 90-pound kid in New York who never ran away and never gave in over something as trivial as fruitless effort.

They manhandled him to the other end of the building, through halls he'd never come close to before. The room they brought him to was so normal it disoriented Bucky. It felt so long ago that he'd seen four plain walls, papers on a desk, or chairs standing with an air of permanence. The weaselly-looking man behind the desk stood as though receiving a regular appointment, adjusted his glasses, and looked at Bucky with clinical curiosity.

“Always the worn-out bodies,” he said in a notable Swiss accent. “It would be nice to have someone fresh.” It was hard to tell if he was speaking to himself or to the guards, as if to share in a common shortcoming of their workplace. He moved to the room's other door in the wall with a large pane of glass and passed through it without needing to indicate that the soldiers were to follow.

Bucky kept his eyes front, taking in only the shape of the equipment in the room, not needing details to guess that the fear churning in his gut was well justified. He was shoved into a seat while the man gave a few curt instructions to what appeared to be his assistants, before coming and standing in front of him with his hands folded neatly, polite smile on his face.

“What is your name?” he said with great courtesy. Bucky delivered his name, rank, and serial number as he'd been trained to on a day long ago when the necessity of the instruction had merely been an ominous possibility. The man nodded, having expected no less.

“Very good, Sergeant Barnes. I was informed you were injured, yes?” He hardly paused to allow the silence Bucky kept. “What was the extent of it?”

“Fritzie bloodied him up a bit. Busted his ribs, too,” related one of the soldiers. “But he was sick well before that.”

“I see.” The man looked back at Bucky. “Well, Sergeant Barnes, I am Doctor Zola. And, as your doctor, let us see if my ministrations can... _improve_ your condition.”

__________________________________________________________________________

The first thing they did was wrestle him to the table. When he adamantly resisted the doctor's smile, if anything, grew more pleased.

“If you wish, Sergeant, you may be sedated, but it is within your best interest--” Bucky didn't get to hear what his best interest was (though he could guess), as one of the soldiers rammed a fist into his chest. After that, Bucky was too absorbed with the struggle to breathe to fight back as his feet left the floor and thick straps were pulled tight across him with cruel finality.

The next stretch of time, immeasurable by his senses, was as hellish as Bucky might have imagined, if one ever could imagine pain as clearly as one could feel it. Zola sometimes spoke to him directly, not of the nature of his work, but vague expressions of his ambition and excitement as he thrust needles into Bucky's arm or hand or collarbone. Other than this, Bucky was left relatively alone as the cocktails in his various drips were given time to take hold, producing effects that ranged from mild tremors to seizing, from fire licking at his skin to ice spreading along his bones. More than once the world began to whirl and tilt around him, making his stomach rebel. While his suffering was completely ignored, his symptoms were closely monitored, and sometimes their severity sent captors rushing about to stick an extra needle-full of some concoction into his arm, or secure another strap over his forehead to stop him from banging his head as he thrashed. On occasion, once they appeared to have determined he wasn't going to die, he was removed from the table, dragged into a small, dark room, and laid out on a cot where he would shake and sweat and try to regain his senses enough to eat and drink whatever was left to him.

He had been left on the table almost entirely by himself, and whatever stage Zola was on—if this even was a real process and not just sick curiosity—had left him feeling as though someone had dumped a thousand shards of glass into his veins, shredding his insides to ribbons with every beat of his heart. He was too weak to struggle properly, but the pain forced his body into a constant state of tension, squirming helplessly against the bruising restraints. He remembered feeling a cold, dry hand touch his forehead, and Zola's voice saying with quiet cheer, “You've done well, Sergeant Barnes. The experiment has been hit and miss, but I believe you are going to make it through.” Bucky considered it a point of pride that he still felt ornery enough to want to spit in the doctor's face, though he couldn't even manage to focus his gaze on him. The next time someone came, they removed him back to his cell.

This time, Bucky was left there long enough for his body to slowly work itself free of the serums as it re-learned how to sit up, then stand, then walk. It was a blessed relief to sleep properly, freed from the hazy twilight of the drugs, and to discover, to his confusion, that the more acute ache in his chest had vanished. Ironically, his regained strength only made him more hopeless; he'd spent so long on the edge of death with violent pain rendering him almost eager for it, the idea that he should be pulled back from the brink only to fight and succumb all over again sank sharply into his chest. As he lay in the dimness waiting for the temporary relief of sleep, something dark suddenly overwhelmed him:

 _I was there for you, **always** there for you. And it's good that you're not here, you shouldn't be here, but by God I **want** you here, Steve. Where are you when **I'm** beaten and sick and_ _alone and so hurt, so tired, so_ _**afraid?** _

Bucky knew it was indecent of him to think badly of his friend, but he couldn't help recoiling as his every memory of Steve's goodness and tenacity, seemed to pronounce him a selfish coward for his unwillingness to fight harder, for wishing not to be alone. He was split between shame and anger over these imagined accusations as he either believed or rejected them by turns.

When they came at length to take him back, the thought of the table, more terrible now for his brief time away from it, gripped him with such fear that he lashed out all the more violently.

This time, they did sedate him.

________________________________________________________________

For a long time after the fact, Bucky would try to reassemble in his mind what had happened to him. What he did remember was less a narrative than a collection of facts:

Zola talked to him a lot more. Asked him questions constantly: Where was he from? What was his mother's name? Who were his friends? He was never discouraged by Bucky's reply, whether it was silence, his serial, or a scream.

He couldn't think while on the table, or the thoughts became slippery. Eventually his army-trained reply became the only thought he allowed to enter his head as long as he could feel the pressure of the straps biting him, saying it aloud when his focus waned and some memory started to give.

While in his cell, he thought of everything: his mother, Becca, Steve, his home, his favorite ice cream, his trips to the beach. He went through them carefully, nailing them down so they wouldn't be blasted away. He sank into them to escape the fear of the table, and as he pictured Steve standing in front of him, determination would fill him, and his heart seemed to beat out a promise that he wouldn't give up, that he would die before letting them win.

When his mother's face blurred and Becca's birthday disappeared, exactly one tear was permitted to escape, running back into his hair, and he marked the loss with his mantra.

“Sergeant James Barnes, 3255...”

And when later lying in his cell he couldn't bring to mind how tall Steve was (up to his chest? his shoulders?) he took it like a punch to the gut, sucking in a shaky breath. _Sorry, Steve,_ he thought, like a prayer sent out across the Atlantic. _Hope I carried myself well enough._

Every time he thought nothing in the world could possibly hurt more, the next bolt of lightning would prove him wrong.

_'Cause it looks like this is as far as I could go._


	5. Chapter 5

Steve had to admit: being big was amazing.

By no means was he grinning as he sneaked into the facility, or jovially keeping count of the enemies he only had to punch once, but for the first time in his life all the things that had been so important to him, that he had only ever been able to attempt and fail, were suddenly within reach. It was exhilarating.

But he wasn't swayed by this new feeling; no fish ever took to water as well as Steven Grant Rogers took to battle. He was cool-headed and focused, with quickness of mind to match his new body and instincts the like of which couldn't be taught. His job was to get these men out, even if his _hope_ was that one of them was Bucky.

When he set off toward the isolation ward he couldn't help but think it would be just typical to find him there. Whose luck but his own could make it seem likely? And when he paused his pursuit of that fleeing figure to follow a faint muttering and his heart sang out he's not dead he's not dead _—_ he found himself thinking of course, _of course_ it would be _his_ best friend they'd taken; _of course_ it was _Bucky_ tied down, alone, in the dark, staring up at the ceiling without blinking as Steve tore him loose; _of course_ it _had_ to be _James Buchanan Barnes_ whose face spent excruciating seconds looking at him with that scraped-out-empty look before breaking into a smile of painful hope at the sound of his name.

“Steve?”

It was the first time Steve had touched him since the serum. Was that why he felt light when Steve held him steady? Why his face looked remote tilted up at him as he said “Thought you were smaller”? Why his grasp seemed weak as he wrapped his arms around Steve's frame? For a moment—just a moment—Steve didn't know what to think of this Bucky who was suddenly so diminished in size and strength. But then he heard “What, did the army run out of _guns_ , you idiot?” and he realized Bucky had been searching his person for a weapon. Finding none, he shoved off Steve as though personally offended and staggered determinedly alongside him. “Gimme the five-second version. It better be good.”

And Steve was just so relieved he was alive.

They made their way through the darkened halls looking for a way out. Bucky stumbled like he was ready to drop, but ignored Steve's silently offered support because “If we run into anyone it's _your_ turn to punch them out. Gotta make sure you haven't forgotten what I taught you 'bout throwin' a right hook.” Steve was happy to oblige; they'd hurt his best friend, and that was something he was more than willing to raise a little hell over. When the man with the red face called him deluded, told him that his new strength meant he was above his humanity and would soon learn to lose it, he disregarded it completely. Even in the unlikely event he did lose his humanity, it would probably just be two feet behind him, making smart remarks like “You don't have one of those, do you?”

But that was assuming he could still get Bucky out of the inferno alive. Buck wasn't having any of it when Steve tried to shove him ahead on the stairs, but he clambered over the rail to cross the gap first, though he was pretty sure it had more to do with him knowing Steve would never let him hang back when he was hardly standing. He paid Steve back for that almost immediately (“No! Not without you!”), and Steve knew he really would stand there and get roasted alive unless Steve found a way.

This called for a leap of faith.

He just made it across the fiery chasm, latching onto the railing as he slammed into it. Instantly, Bucky was hauling him upward as though he had forgotten that Steve was strong now, as though all he saw was his skinny friend hanging over a pit of fire. Steve climbed over and they both tumbled back as the walkway shuddered from the latest explosion. Steve shot to his feet and hauled the disoriented Bucky to his, shoving him toward the exit. They burst out onto something like a fire escape. Once they'd made it first to the ground and then a safe distance away, Steve stopped to breathe the cold night air into lungs roughened by smoke.

“You good?” he asked after a moment. Bucky was bent over next to him and looking back at the building as its collapsing metal screeched. He nodded and straightened up, but Steve could see the adrenaline draining out of him. Steve placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Come on,” he said. “I told the others to meet—Buck?” Bucky was facing Steve but not looking at him, gaze unfocused. Steve tightened his hold. “Buck, you gonna make it okay?” Bucky's eyes snapped back to his face, and Steve could see by the glow of the fire his jaw clenching as he swallowed.

“Yeah, I'll be fine,” he said cooly. His delivery was so believable Steve was about to let him go when he suddenly swayed perilously under his hand, wincing unmistakably. Steve just managed to get ahold of him before his legs gave out.

“Easy! I gotcha.” He let him down gently, one arm hooked behind his back to keep him upright. Concern flared inside him as Bucky's whole body shuddered, his eyes glazed with what looked like pain. “What did they do to you?” Bucky took a steadying breath, then another.

“Nothing you can fuss over I'm afraid.” He tightened his jaw again, steeling himself. “Help me up,” he demanded, already trying to stand. Steve had to move with him to keep him from falling.

“Buck-” Steve started just as he got his feet underneath him, but before he could finish, Bucky's balance wavered again, and he lurched like the ground was heaving beneath him. Steve caught a look of utter misery on his face.

“My head...” Bucky said in a small voice, his eyes glazed over again, before they slid shut and he slumped in Steve's arms.

Steve loosed a small sigh as he hefted his friend's limp form. “My turn at last,” he murmured, maneuvering Bucky into a fireman's carry and bearing him toward the clearing.

Of all that he'd done with his new strength—performing in front of crowds, jumping out of planes, fighting enemies, liberating prisoners, leaping over explosions—none was worth more to him than this.

____________________________________________________________________

He was greeted by a swell of murmurs as he arrived in the clearing.

“Look! It's that Captain guy,” one of the men called out.

“He found someone?” another voice from the back piped up. Steve ignored them as he let Bucky, who was conscious again, down against the base of a large tree. Bucky leaned his head back against the trunk, swallowing hard like he was trying not to be sick.

“ _Jimmy?_ ” Steve turned sharply to see the man with the bowler hat shoving to the front. The man barked out a laugh of disbelief. “Jimmy! My God, boy, you're still kickin'?” Bucky heaved an enormous sigh.

“I swear, Dugan, you call me that one more time and I'll rip your precious mustache clean off.” The so-named Dugan, undeterred, crouched down next to him.

“He said he was lookin' for you,” he said, cocking his head back at Steve. “But they took you almost a _month_ ago; I thought you were long since dead.”

“I don't know how you found the will to go on without me,” Bucky deadpanned, though he looked momentarily unsettled. Dugan laughed.

“Well, seein' as how we're both alive, you wanna celebrate with this?” He reached for the rifle on his back and unslung it. Bucky eagerly wrapped his hands around it with a crooked grin.

“Aw, you shouldn't've Dugan. I take back exactly one of the nasty things I've said to you.”

“ _So_ 'Captain America',” drawled one of the scruffy soldiers. “What's the order now?” Steve didn't think the man intended to be surly, but they _had_ just fought their way out of a long captivity and it probably wouldn't be long before the enemy came 'round to see why their factory had gone up in flames. Time—in addition to almost everything else—was not on their side. Steve did his best to sound like he knew what he was doing as he said the company would sweep the place for weapons, supplies, and provisions of any kind, then figure out what modes of transportation were still viable--

“You mean there isn't any extraction?” yelled another soldier.

“Oh, I _bet_ there isn't,” Bucky called out from where he sat, pinning Steve with that deadly and slightly manic smile he reserved for when Steve had done something so momentously stupid it defied all reason. “I'll bet anything he came all by his own punk self. Hey!” he shouted at the mutters of discontent. “It's not like we all didn't know the army wasn't comin' this far behind the line. He's better than nothing.”

“Better step to,” Dugan added. “We got ourselves in, so we'll get ourselves out. We can argue over a pint once we get back, eh lads?”

“Only if it's on you, Dumdum!” a voice called back, and the tension dissolved with scattered laughter.

Once the assembly was dispatched with minimal order, aside from the other injured soldiers and their pals, Steve walked back to where Bucky was swatting Dugan's hands away.

“Paws off, Dugan, you ain't a doctor.”

“You just say that 'cause you don't wanna be doctored,” Dugan shot back. “Even in the dark I can tell you're pale as milk, and don't think I've missed your hands shaking on that gun like you're mixing a stiff drink.” Dugan looked up when he heard Steve approach. “So, you two know each other. Think you can convince him to share?”

“I'm just grateful he's sitting down,” Steve replied with a smile. Bucky looked scandalized.

“Oh, that is so not—you got no right, Steve, after I had to chase your butt all over Brooklyn.”

“Steve?” Dugan interjected. “Skinny Steve you used to talk about?”

“I've had a growth spurt.”

“In size but not sense...” grumbled Bucky.

“But you said he was _tiny,_ ” Dugan insisted. Steve cocked a grin.

“Go on, Dugan, I'll keep an eye on him while you get yourself another gun.” When Dugan was gone, Steve settled down on one knee next to Bucky, who set his rifle at an angle more conducive to shooting anything that tried to come up behind him. “Okay, tell me what's hurt.” When Bucky just made an exasperated noise, Steve chewed the inside of his lip, then said softly, “I'm just asking _what,_ Buck. Not... _how_.” He knew Bucky would flinch, but he still hated to see it.

“You'll just feel bad 'cause you can't do anything about it,” Bucky warned. Steve waited.

“...my head is killing me.”

“How bad?”

“I r _eally_ regret raising my voice.”

“What else?”

“I feel...fuzzy, like everything's kinda distant. And blurry. And spinning. Also, I think the vision in my left eye keeps going in and out.” Steve must have looked dismayed because Bucky snorted. Then he deflated slightly, every inch of his face and posture screaming exhaustion. “I'm just...really tired.” Steve clapped him gently on the shoulder.

“With any luck, there'll be space for you to ride somewhere.” Bucky stiffened at that.

“Oh, no way am I letting you outta my sight. After the stunts you just pulled you'll be lucky if I don't cuff our wrists together.”

“What? You don't trust me?”

“As far as I can throw you.” Steve laughed.

“Then you must have trusted me an awful lot back in Brooklyn.” Bucky stared off into the dark, and Steve suddenly felt as though he was a great distance away.

“Too much as it turns out,” Buck murmured. “I trusted you to stay home.”

Steve didn't know what to say to that, but Bucky made it clear he wasn't looking for a reply—not right then, anyway—so he let it pass.

“You get one chance, okay? If you give me another scare I'll find a ride for you even if it's in a wheelbarrow.”

“Whatever, 'Captain'.”

“Just shut up and rest.” Steve sat down against the tree facing back toward the burning wreck, keeping his eyes and ears open. After a long pause he heard Bucky take in a breath.

“Did that red guys say there were films?”

Steve froze, heat creeping up his neck and setting the tips of his ears ablaze. Bucky snickered.

“Now _there's_ something worth living for.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your kind attention. Always happy to hear from readers, especially with any constructive feedback!


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